


Goodness, discipline, knowledge

by GreenHouse



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Bare-bottomed caning, Caning, Corporal Punishment, Discipline, Humiliation, M/M, Scolding, Student Sherlock, Teacher John, Teacher/Student, Teenlock, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-10
Updated: 2015-06-10
Packaged: 2018-04-03 19:14:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4111957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreenHouse/pseuds/GreenHouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eighteen year old Sherlock has been getting away with his bad behaviour for far too long and Headmaster Watson has had enough. He offers Sherlock a choice - leave the school, or bend over and prepare to receive a painful and humiliating caning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Goodness, discipline, knowledge

Dr Watson closed the window of his study as the late September sun retreated behind a cloud. The wind had picked up, blowing a few stray leaves over the cricket pitch. It was already turning chilly. He retreated to his desk and picked up his cup of tea, glancing at the last few unsolved clues in his crossword.

Six across: “Punishment stick (4)”.

Well that one was easy. He was filling in C-A-N-E, when the door opened.

“Headmaster,” a deep assured voice said. “I’m pleased to be given the chance to welcome you to Birchwood College. I'm sure we will all enjoy working with you.”

Sherlock Holmes. Fifteen minutes early and striding into the study as though he owned it. He was living up to his reputation.

“Thank you for your enthusiasm, Holmes. I realise I‘m unfamiliar with College traditions, but in schools where I am headmaster, boys  _knock_  before entering my study and wait to be invited in.”

Holmes looked surprised. “You do know who I am, sir?”

Dr Watson smiled wryly. “Holmes, believe me, I am well aware of who you are.”

He surveyed the boy standing before him with such insolent assurance. Eighteen years old, tall, dark haired and blue eyed, neatly attired in the school uniform of grey and black with a red prefect’s badge on his lapel. In appearance he was every inch a model public schoolboy. But as a headmaster of ten years’ experience, Dr Watson was only too aware that appearances could be deceptive.

“It’s Gower, with an ‘e’, sir,” said Holmes.

“What?”

“Twelve down. Gower with an ‘e’ not an ‘a’.”

Dr Watson looked down at his paper. Sure enough, he'd neatly printed G-O-W-A-R down the left hand column of the puzzle. “Shut the door, Holmes. I didn’t ask you here for help with the crossword. We have more pressing matters to discuss.”

Indeed in the week since he had taken up the role of headmaster of Birchwood College, the issue of this brilliant but arrogant boy had taken up a disproportionate amount of his time. Mycroft Holmes, older brother to this presumptuous visitor, was a prominent member of the school governors and a thorn in the side of his predecessor, Reverend Thomas. Having a brother so well-situated had rendered the younger Holmes virtually immune to the school's usual methods of discipline. Rev Thomas, now comfortably installed in his Cotswolds retirement cottage, was not a man to rock the boat. Dr Watson however, was made of sterner stuff.

Holmes shut the door and casually settled himself in the more comfortable of the two chairs facing the headmaster's desk.

“Holmes. You will remain standing until I tell you otherwise.”

Holmes looked directly into the headmaster's eyes, then smiled as he rose to his feet with easy grace. “You know, sir, I write to my brother every Sunday. He likes me to let him know how the staff are doing.”

Dr Watson returned his stare unsmiling. “We have some serious matters to discuss this evening, Holmes. Your attitude needs to change. And now.”

Holmes shrugged. “Yes, sir,” he said, his tone barely falling short of outright contempt.

Dr Watson handed him the slim folder that lay open on his desk. “Read this, boy," he said.

Holmes's sneer was replaced by a scowl at being addressed as ‘boy'. He took the folder and glanced at the contents. At the top was a resignation letter from Mr Anderson, a former chemistry master. It catalogued a hair-raising litany of misbehaviour from Holmes and informed the headmaster in no uncertain terms that he would not be returning to teach at Birchwood 'unless that bloody boy goes first.'

Dr Watson sipped at his tea, waiting for a response. The silence extended to several minutes. In the end Holmes raised an eyebrow and said:

“Are you going to say something, sir, or are we just going to stay here all day?”

Dr Watson stared over the rim of his cup at his insolent pupil and said nothing. Another minute passed. He finished his tea and replaced his cup into its saucer with the faintest chink of fine bone china.

“Tell me about Mr Anderson,” he said.

“Anderson was a pathetic excuse for a teacher and a disgrace to his profession. It’s for the best for the school that he doesn’t return.”

“But you don't call him a liar. Is it true then, what he's written?” Dr Watson enquired.

Holmes shrugged. Apparently it wasn't worth the effort to deny. Dr Watson took back the folder and sighed inwardly. The interview was not proceeding as he'd hoped.

“May I go now, sir? As prefect, I do have important business to attend to.”

Dr Watson took a deep breath. “Sit down please, Holmes.” He indicated an armchair next to the fireplace.

Holmes’s triumphant smile spoke volumes. Dr Watson waited until he was seated and took the facing chair, then picked up the envelope he had placed on the side table earlier that afternoon.

“This is a letter to me from your brother. Read it now, please.”

Holmes took the envelope, his disdainful air not quite hiding his surprise. “Mycroft wrote to you?" he said. He scanned the letter quickly, his face falling as he read.

Dr Watson waited until he had finished. “As you can see, your brother has resigned from the governors of the school due to some urgent business abroad. That leaves you in a rather different situation than previously.”

An understatement, if ever there was one.

“Now, Holmes, my first priority will always be the welfare of the boys of this school. I have no desire to mark your record permanently by expelling you, but the disgraceful behaviour outlined in Mr Anderson's letter cannot go unpunished. I've thought about this matter at some length and there are two options open to you.

“The first is for you to leave the school immediately. Obviously the next stage of your education will then be for you and your family to arrange, as best you can. Alternatively, you may stay on but things can not continue as they were. You will no longer be prefect and must take your place amongst the rank and file of the ordinary boys.”

Holmses's jaw had dropped in shock. “You can't stop me being prefect. I was appointed by Rev Thomas!”

“And he has since retired. There are a dozen reasons for stripping you of that title; almost any boy in your house deserves the role more than you after your appalling behaviour.

“Additionally, before you leave this study you will receive punishment for the offences of last year as detailed in Mr Anderson's letter. I need hardly say that this will be a severe punishment, the most severe I am permitted to dispense, namely twelve stokes of the cane. However, once completed the slate will have been wiped clean and you will begin tomorrow as a sixth former no more or less likely to be punished than any other. If however, your behaviour resembles your behaviour of last year in any way whatsoever, I can promise you, Holmes, that you will soon become very familiar with my collection of canes. Those are your two choices.”

Dr Watson leaned back in his chair. For a while Holmes didn't answer. His face was frozen, only his eyes moved, flickering from side to side. It was clear the boy was torn: run away and evade all responsibility but face an uncertain future, or remain and pay for his misdeeds.

“Why should I want to stay here, anyway?” he said eventually. “There are plenty of much better schools.”

“Well, the exams you are due to take at the end of term for one, and your application to Oxford could well be affected by your early departure.”

Holmes scowled but beneath his annoyance were signs of concern. “My brother will-”

“Your brother has more pressing matters to attend to. As I said, Holmes, the choice is yours. But there are two options on the table and no more.”

Holmes didn’t reply. The uncomfortable truth of this statement was beginning to sink in. Dr Watson  folded his arms. The clock on the mantle chimed the hour.

“All right,” Holmes said eventually.

“Am I to understand from that you mean to accept my offer to remain?”

“Don't think it’s because I want to stay at your stupid school. Once I'm through the Oxford entrance exam, I'm leaving.”

Dr Watson took a deep breath. “Stand up, Holmes.” Holmes stood, as though it was beneath him to refuse. “Give me your badge.”

Holmes unpinned the red badge on his lapel and placed it not in Dr Watson's outstretched hand but on the side table. It would be his last act of defiance, Dr Watson resolved.

“The rest of this interview will concern the punishment that you so richly deserve. Take off your blazer.” Looking a little less assured, Holmes removed his blazer, folded it neatly and placed it onto his chair. “Now stand over there, in the corner, hands on your head, nose touching the wall.” Holmes hesitated and Dr Watson’s voice grew steely. “ _Now_ Holmes, if you want to continue your education here.”

Dr Watson was a great believer in making sure that a boy was in no doubt as to the reason for his punishment. There was nothing like a prospect of a caning to focus the mind of even the dullest pupil and Holmes's reports made it clear that whatever his shortcomings he was far from dull. Rather the opposite, Dr Watson thought, his was a mind that needed constant stimulation and firm boundaries if he was to excel. Simply listing the numerous, inventive, outrages for which the forthcoming thrashing was to atone took a good ten minutes. He concluded:

“So Holmes, by all accounts for the past year you have behaved like an unmitigated little turd and got away with it scot free. Those days are over. You will receive a severe thrashing with the senior cane. Twelve strokes. Even that is only a small part of what your behaviour deserves.”

He stood and moved the low chair, known by regular visitors to the study as the thrashing chair, to its allotted place into the centre of the room.

“Come here,” he positioned Holmes facing the chair back. “Keep your hands on your head.”

He left Holmes to contemplate his fate while he fetched the senior cane from its cupboard. It was longer than the others in his armoury, and both stout and flexible, reserved for chastising only the most senior boys. He gave it a few test swishes through the air, then stood facing his pupil, the cane held between his hands as he flexed it slowly. “In my entire career as a schoolmaster I don't think I've ever administered a more deserved punishment. Bend over.”

Holmes, his face frozen, assumed the position, bending over the back of the chair and resting his palms on the seat.

Dr Watson circled around him. “Legs further apart.” He tapped the cane on the inside of Holmes’s calves in emphasis. “Head down.”

After a second Holmes dropped his head lower and spread his legs. The adjustment rounded his haunches and tightened his trousers, but the benefits were not just aesthetic. The position kept the miscreant's buttocks soft and yielding, the better to receive their punishment, while tucking the lower back out of harm's way.

Dr Watson took his stance and rapped Holmes's tightly clad backside in preparation.

“You will receive six strokes with your trousers up and six with them down,” he said. “Count them.”

And without further comment he raised his arm and brought the cane down hard across the boy's backside.

Holmes gasped as the pain of the blow registered. “One,” he said, “sir.”

Dr Watson frowned at his tone and walked to his desk and back again. It never did any harm to allow a boy to feel the full effect of each stoke and wait in fearful anticipation of the next. He was a fair man, a believer in proper discipline, but not one to take particular enjoyment in seeing his pupils humiliated. It was difficult however, not to take some pleasure from seeing this arrogant young man bent over for his first real thrashing, his school flannels stretched taut over his well-shaped behind.

The second swish was followed by a loud crack.

“Two, sir.” said Holmes. His neatly parted dark hair had flopped forward. He stared down at the seat of the chair with intense concentration.

A third stroke, landing in parallel to the first two.

“Ow!” said Holmes. He hissed in pain. “Three, sir....”

This time Dr Watson walked in front of the chair. Holmes’s pale face, until so recently affecting an insolent devil-may-care smile, now had its jaw tightly clamped, trying oh-so-hard to look as though he did not care that he was finally receiving his comeuppance. He nodded in satisfaction, returned to his position and dispensed the next stroke with gusto.

“Ah! F-our, sir!”

Dr Watson was only flesh and blood after all. The thought that this boy was likely to be bending over this very chair again, perhaps on a nightly basis, was not an unpleasant one. He laid on the fifth, which cut home with expert precision.

“Five! Sir!”

His decision to assign Holmes's discipline as “headmaster's only”, reserved for the most deserving cases, was one that he was pleased with already. He landed the final stroke with a particular flourish.

Silence, then: “S-six. Sir.”

“Never have I met a boy so in need of discipline,” Dr Watson said, then with a sudden burst of inspiration, picked up the paper and completed three across of the crossword before returning to the task in hand. “Stand up, boy! Trousers and underwear down.”

Holmes stood. He looked stunned. His eyes were wet. He undid his belt, and gingerly unbuttoned his fly, clearly embarrassed. Eyes firmly fixed on the floor, he lowered his trousers.

“Pants as well. To your knees.”

Face scarlet, Holmes pulled his underwear down his thighs. They were a pair of dark blue shorts, made of some flimsy material and not at all school regulation. Dr Watson didn't speak until they too were looped around the boy's knees, as he'd commanded.

“Back over the chair.”

Holmes bent over, his modesty still preserved by his shirt-tails. Dr Watson flipped the cloth back with the cane and inspected his handiwork. The characteristic double red tramlines of a well-delivered caning stood out vividly, the ridges clearly visible in Holmes’s pale flesh. He rested the cane lightly across the crown of the boy’s cheeks, not missing the nervous quiver which shook them in response. Holmes had already developed a healthy respect for the instrument of his punishment, as well he should.

“So Holmes, what happens when you leave this room is entirely up to you.”

He swung the cane once more and landed it squarely across the fleshiest part of the boy’s bare behind. Without the protection of his thick flannel trousers, the sting would be particularly fierce.

“S-seven, sir!”

“If you want, then this can become a nightly routine.”

Holmes was already shaking his head as the next forceful crack landed. “Ah! Eight! Sir!”

“I am quite capable of thrashing your backside every single day of term if your behaviour warrants.” He laid on the next three strokes in a rapid succession in pointed demonstration of this fact.

“Ni-nine! Sir. Ten! Sir! Eleven! Oh please, sir!” gabbled Holmes, just short of breaking down.

“However, I do hope that this thrashing will have taught you a lesson that you will never forget and that this encounter need be the only one of its kind. Do I make myself clear?” He rested the cane carefully along the crease of the boy’s behind where rounded buttock met tender thigh.

The boy's dark curls bobbed frantically. “Yes sir!”

“Good.” He dispensed the final cut with energy, landing it cleanly across the top of the boy’s thighs, where the skin was most sensitive.

Holmes kicked in involuntary shock, the first time he had broken position. “T-twelve. Sir!”

“Don’t move, boy.”

Dr Watson dropped the cane on his desk and stood back to admire his handiwork. It was a pleasing sight. Holmes's long muscular thighs were stretched tight over the back of the venerable thrashing chair, topped by one of the most handsome backsides Dr Watson had ever had the painful duty of chastising. Its pale skin had been decorated with a series of red and, he was pleased to note, perfectly parallel welts. Holmes would at least have some trophies to show his dormitory fellows tonight, as he began to work out who his real friends were now his prefect's badge was gone.

“Up you get and back in the corner. Hands on your head, nose touching the wall. You may not resume your trousers or pants.”

Holmes rose, his face wet with tears. He skulked into the corner with none of his usual grace, not looking up and certainly not looking towards the headmaster. Once there he did as he was instructed, standing bare-arsed while he contemplated the ignominy of his position.

Dr Watson opened the punishment book and entered the boy's name. In the column headed ‘Offence’ he wrote, after careful consideration, ‘Multiple outrages over the previous school year.’ He sat back in his armchair by the window. His tea was all gone, but he still had five clues on the crossword to ponder on.

Some ten minutes later, with one across still incomplete but the crossword otherwise finished, he put the paper down.

“Right, young man, you may resume your clothing and stand facing me at my desk.”

Holmes obeyed, wiping his wet face surreptitiously with his sleeve as he did.

“From my perspective, Holmes, you have now been punished for the crimes of the past. You leave this room with the chance to start anew, and prove to me that I have not been mistaken in allowing you to remain at this school to complete your education. But make no mistake. If you break any of the school rules, I will hear of it and I personally will punish you for it. You took that thrashing like a man. I sincerely hope that we need not repeat it.”

Holmes nodded, still not meeting his eyes. “Yes sir. Thank you, sir.”

“Good night, Holmes.”

“Night sir.”

As the door closed, Dr Watson rose to return the thrashing chair to its normal position to one side of the fireplace. Over the mantelpiece, Birchwood College's shield and motto had been carved into the ancient stone: _Bonitatem, disciplinam, scientiam_ he read - goodness, discipline, knowledge. He thought back to Holmes’s downcast eyes. Well, we can certainly hope.


End file.
